Stiles has a plan.
He even thinks it’s a good plan; all he has to do is find Professor Hale, convince him that Stiles is the best person for his job posting, and then finally make a little money to get his Jeep fixed.
It all sounds so easy in his head, just so long as he ignores all the rumors he’s heard about Professor Hale. Horror stories, really. Everything points to this guy being an unbearable asshole and Stiles doesn’t really mix well with unbearable assholes - mostly because he is one - but he has to try. He needs this job.
As he approaches what he thinks is Professor Hale’s office, he slows his walk. His hands clench at his sides and he takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He can do this; he can stop being a smart ass long enough to prove his competency.
The Professor’s TA is sitting behind the desk when Stiles walks in. The plain gray t-shirt he’s wearing stretches tight over his shoulders and chest, the muscles in his arms flexing minutely as he writes something in a notebook. There’s stubble and cheekbones and a pair of Converse-clad feet sticking out on the other side of the desk and if all of that wasn’t bad enough, when the guy lifts his gaze, Stiles finds himself staring into the prettiest pair of eyes he’s ever seen.
There is not one bad thing about this guy and Stiles is suddenly very aware of how dry his mouth is.
"Can I help you?" the TA asks. His voice isn’t as deep as Stiles expected but it’s still pleasant. Stiles wants to know how he sounds when he moans.
"Um." He blinks, trying to find words - any words, any at all - that won’t get him arrested for sexual harrassment. What was he here for again?"Professor Hale. I’m looking for Professor Hale."
The TA just stares.
"So," Stiles falters, his face burning. Does the guy have to be so hot? It’s distracting. “Do you know when he’ll be back?”
Lips twitch, amused, and Stiles gets a flash of what that would feel like against his skin.
"Do you have an appointment?"
Stiles shakes his head. “No, sorry. I wanted to talk to him about the job posting. Do I, uh, need one?”
The TA visibly perks up at the mention of the job. He stands, coming around the desk to give Stiles a dreadful view of his thighs in a pair of form-fitting jeans. If he turns around, Stiles may actually faint.
He sticks his hand out and Stiles shakes it without really knowing why they’re suddenly acting like people with manners.
"That posting’s been up a week," the TA says, sounding relieved. "You’re the first person who’s come by; I didn’t think anyone would."
When Stiles just continues to stand there and stare, he adds, “I’m Professor Hale, by the way.”
Stiles blinks, trying to process this new information.
His first thought is, you’re too hot to be a professor.
It’s followed closely by, you’re not as much of an asshole as everyone says you are.
It’s only when not-a-TA-but-actually-Professor-Hale’s eyebrows shoot above his hairline that Stiles realizes he said that last one out loud. Or possibly both of them. God, he hopes not both of them.
He winces. “Can we just…pretend I didn’t say that?”
Professor Hale snorts. “Not a chance.”
"I’ve got one word for you, Derek. Sing-along.” Stiles grins, waving tickets in Derek’s face. “As in the one-night-only Sound of Music Sing-Along at the theatre this weekend.”
It’s a little known fact and closely guarded secret that Derek is a Broadway freak. He has a stupidly large CD case dedicated to soundtracks that Stiles found a few months ago; tucked into the inside pockets were ticket stubs and a few pictures of him and Laura at shows in New York.
In Derek-Hale-speak, it’s practically a shrine.
"That’s two words," Derek says flatly.
Stiles falters, confused. “What?”
"Sing-Along; it’s two words."
Stiles rolls his eyes. “It’s a hyphenated word, asshole, it counts. Why are you focusing on that when you could be focusing on the tickets.”
"I’m not sitting through that," Derek says. "I don’t even like musicals."
Okay, so Derek doesn’t know that Stiles found his shrine. Stiles didn’t want to get the eyebrows, so he just avoided the subject altogether but now Derek’s lying about it and Stiles can’t just let that stand.
"Tell that to the forty-six ticket stubs I found in the CD case filled with dozens of Broadway soundtracks,” he retorts, grinning.
The eyebrows start gathering, Derek’s lip curling in a snarl. Stiles shoves one of the sing-along tickets against his chest before darting for the front door.
"It’s Saturday!" Stiles calls over his shoulder. "Eight o’clock!"
“Stiles!” Derek shouts somewhere behind him; it sounds like he’s giving chase. “You counted?”